Wonderful
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Wilson thought that he could just drive over to House’s apartment, walk up to the door, knock, then his friend would instantly forgive him, and everything would go back to normal, but he knew it wasn’t that easy. Alternate ending to dying changes...AU etc
1. Not Okay

Wonderful: Alternate ending to Dying Changes Everything and AU in which Wilson does not deserve to be shot and then stabbed in

Wonderful: Alternate ending to _Dying Changes Everything_ and AU in which Wilson does not deserve to be shot and then stabbed in the eye. Wilson thought that he could just drive over to House's apartment, walk up to the door, knock, then his friend would instantly forgive him, and everything would go back to normal, but he knew it wasn't that easy, from the moment he parked his car. So, he just sat there, thinking. Warning, spoilers for _Dying, _and everything before it, slash, swear words, references to child abuse, AU, OOC, etc.

"I close my eyes when I get too sad  
I think thoughts that I know are bad  
Close my eyes and I count to ten  
Hope its over when I open them  
I want the things that I had before  
Like a star wars poster on my bedroom door  
I wish I could count to ten  
Make everything be wonderful again," Everclear

I could have gone to see House a million times over the summer, but I didn't. Part of me tried to convince myself that he should have come to see me, only. Only, I knew I'd never have let him past the door. I just wanted the guy to try for once. When he stammered into my office the first time, I thought he actually was—_and who knows_, I thought, _maybe this is him trying._ Then he actually started talking. Greg turned into himself, and so did I. We fought. I pushed him away; he pushed back. We probably would have fallen off the balcony from all that pushing if Thirteen hadn't interrupted us when she did. The second time he came, he refused to bother with the formalities. The thing with Cuddy probably made everything worse, which isn't all that unusual with the woman. The third time he came into my office, I saw how much he was hurting too, and I almost hugged him, but then he threw a temper tantrum instead of trying to be nice to me. _He's doing the best he can. What do you want; you expect him to run the New York marathon with a giant sign on his back that says, please don't leave me?_ I was mad. And I was hurting, and told myself I was going to run away and never come back. But I still found myself sitting in the car outside of his apartment for three hours. Then he hobbled over to the space and knocked on my window.

"I've got pizza inside—unless you wanna sit here until you starve to death, which by the way would be another brilliant step on your new ladder of stupidity." What he really meant by this was _come inside, please._

"If you say one word; I'm leaving," I explained, climbing out of the car. "And I'm not spending the night." He nodded, silently. "How's your head?" This time he shrugged, looking at something across the parking lot that was most definitely not me. "I didn't actually mean the thing about talking."

"I know." _Boy, you sure are making this easy, _I thought, even my mind was snapping at him.

"I didn't mean the other thing either. The thing you're too afraid to mention." _You don't think he's ever going to believe anything you say to him again, do you?_ My mind taunted me, and I hated myself for doing this to him.

"Yeah, you did," he whispered. House stretched out on the sofa, leaving no space for me to sit anywhere close to him. I tried to hang out on the armrest, but he pushed me again, physically this time.

"I think I'm gonna stay here tonight, sleep—wherever you…don't think it's a good idea…I'm not ready to leave yet."

"Either get the hell away from me and stay there, or bring all your stuff inside. I'm not gonna kill myself, but—yo-yoing is stupid and it makes my stomach hurt. I don't think I can do it okay?"

"I feel like crap. I'm not thinking straight. I'm saying stuff I don't mean, hurting the only people in my life that actually give a shit about me. I hurt you, for no good reason, and what's worse—"

"Shut up," he said, even more quietly than his last comment.

"You are the most insecure person I have ever met, and I don't know what caused it. You were gonna tell me something, In my office one of those times, I'm not—they all sort of blurred together."

"I'm sorry..." He meant that one. "Just go. It'll hurt a lot worse if you try and stick it out for a couple of days and even more if we talk about—something." _Just tell me that your dad beat the crap out of you, or molested you, or whatever the fuck he did._ _Tell me, and I won't have to leave, and eventually we'll forgive each other. You'll get over it, because I'll do something amazing to make up for it, but you won't get over it if you don't talk to me!_ I really, really wanted to say that, but he was in so much pain, it would have only hurt him more to tell me what he was holding back. "Any chance you can see the way to not hating me someday?"

"I don't hate you. I don't. I love you. I just. You need something from me, but won't talk about it. I can't give you—whatever you need, unless I know what the something is. I'm trying to treat a paitent without a complete medical history."

"Get out!" I barely heard those two words, but they had a lot of force behind them.

"I can't do that." House stood up, limping towards his bedroom, but I raced over, grabbing his cane. _Don't do it. Don't say it! He's never gonna forgive you; never gonna get over it,_ my brain screamed out at me. "You have this look in your eyes. I've seen it on other people. Usually it's a kid's face though, a paitent, and it always ends with a call to the department of human services."

"I don't need child services, or whatever, you moron," he sapped.' I touched a nerve, and was getting close to the thing he was hiding. "I thought I told you to get out of here. Go, now!"

"You're a grown up now, so no, you don't need protecting, but forty years ago, maybe little more, maybe a little less, could have really used somebody with a badge."

"Go to Hell," he shouted, dropping the cane, trying to get away without it. Greg tripped, falling to his knees, screaming in pain, and then sitting down completely, hugging his leg. "I hate you! I hate you!" I took a step back, just enough so that he could have the physical space he needed, but did to back down.

"It was your dad, wasn't it?" I asked softly. He lowered his face into his arms. "Do you need help getting back to the couch?" He shook his head again. "Tell me what happened. If you can do that that, maybe I can help you—we can help each other."

"You met him; guy thinks he could make a burnt out light bulb work if he yells at it enough. But I was a kid. I did kid stuff, screwed up, horsed around, made a mess, you know…all the time. Oh come on. You can't handle this right now. We'll both be. No, what—what do you mean, no? Stop shaking your head. I dunno if I can." House was quiet for a while, but then sighed. "He had all these rules, and I was just a kid I couldn't help it. I got in—why am I even telling you this?"

"Because I can help. I can—because I'm gonna stay here, for you. I'm gonna take care of you, love you, help you. I'm gonna do my thing. Can't fix it all, but maybe you won't hurt so much, maybe I won't either." He looked up at me as if to say, fuck you. "If you really didn't want to tell me you wouldn't. I'm far enough away that you could easily get away, lock yourself in there, and—"

"If I don't do this, you're gonna leave, forever. If that happens, don't know what's gonna happen to me."

"No. Hey. Hey, look at me. I'm not leaving. If you're not ready or not able to talk about this, then—we'll just wait until you can, okay? See? Just like I said. Didn't mean a word of it."

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, well, maybe sort of at the time, I meant parts of it, but I love you. That will never change. You're—you need me, and I need to be needed. We're buddies. We're guys. We're human. Each of us is bound to screw up once in a while. It was my turn."

He thought about this long and hard before saying, "I got in trouble a lot. I was a bad, and, little—I just couldn't be good, and when I wasn't, he would. Sometimes he yelled, sometime spankings or—worse. He called them spankings no matter what he used, and he'd use whatever was around. You ever been in a bathtub full of ice? I wasn't sick, didn't have a fever. Just…bad. Sometimes didn't feed me, wouldn't let me sleep inside. And…well I think you got the other thing figured out."

"I'm pretty sure…yeah. I know, but you'll feel better if you tell me about it." Another sigh, two actually, one from each of us this time. "How old where you when it…"

"Five, well no. I was almost five. I think it was right around my birthday. Yeah," he sort snorted when I gasped, "Went on until I was 12." I sat down right beside, but didn't actually touch him

"Maybe I can live here and commute to work."

"Cuddy doesn't have a replacement yet. We walk in hand in hand or—whatever, she'll pretend it never happened. Unless you don't wanna work with me. Or don't feel like going back there…it sucks, staying someplace where everybody knows what crappy thing you've been through." He definetly understood, but that wasn't my main problem. I was worried about him—a lot, and I was worried about myself, a lot. "Whatever you wanna do," he said, trying to sound like he didn't care, reaching into his pocket for his Vicodin.

"You got enough of those? I'm—I shouldn't have left you in the lurch like that." He shrugged another; _I don't give a shit_ gesture. "Tell me what _you_ think." I asked, gently stroking the side of his face.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, half desperately. "Just tell me what to say, and I will, or better yet, tell me what to do and I'll do it."

"Do you want me to come back to the hospital, and don't turn this into—don't say, 'I won't be able to get my pills if you go.' Obviously you're fine on that one, so just tell me what you want. This isn't that hard."

"Yes it is. That's a trick, and I may not know what the right answer is, but you just told me not to say the thing that I'm worried about." I told myself not to yell at him, that the guy couldn't help it. House had shut down—completely, a long time ago and I wasn't going to change that in one night.

"How is it testing you to ask for you opinion?" I pushed him, knowing that I wasn't gonna get an answer, not a real one anyway.

"Because if I say I don't care or tell you its okay to leave, and I don't mean it, you'll go away anyhow, and if I ask you to stay but you won't…well you get the picture, right? There is no answer to that on. No good answer anyway."

"From what I understood out of that long-winded, mostly insane answer you want me to stick around, here and at the hospital, but you're afraid to tell me, afraid that I won't believe it, afraid you'll get hurt." House started to stand up, but then stopped, sat back down, and move d closer to me, all without saying a word. "Do you want me to shut up and let you just stare at the TV until we fall asleep on the couch" He seemed to think this over for a long time, touching his hair, scratching his cheek, looking in every direction except mine, and lastly sort of banging against the wall. "Don't—don't hurt yourself, okay?"

"You're okay with me—with—its okay?" he asked, like a little kid asking for something he wasn't supposed to have. "We should probably keep talking, probably got a lot of stuff you need, or something." I took both of his hands, and put them between mine.

"I said some things today—stuff I knew better than to tell you and it wasn't even true. We've both been having tough times lately. I'll make you a deal. I'm gonna go get myself a really big drink, and the two of us can sit together, not talking, not thinking, just concentrating as hard as we can on something that doesn't hurt like Hell." I could see House preparing to tell me that our experiences couldn't be compared but then something amazing happened. He held his tongue.

"You want one of my pills" he asked, offering me the bottle, once again just like a four-year-old. "It helps and it doesn't help. When I'm here by myself, and I take one or two or four more than I oughta—I get to this point, and it's like my brain is stuck in first gear. Only really able to think simple thoughts, most of the time it's way up in third or even fourth. Doctor Stuff is—well my mind morphs from a car to jet engine." He liked that line, laughing at it.

"Can I have more than one?" Again he nodded, handing me the whole vial. I took two, put the id on it, took it off, and grabbed a third, chewing this one the way he did. "Oh, God," I coughed. "That is disgusting."

"Think you could cook something from the stuff I've got in my fridge and cabinets?"

"Only if you want a whiskey sour. Anything more complicated than that, probably gonna be, cooking is probably one of those higher skills, in second gear to borrow your metaphor."

"I'm okay, I had a couple of drinks and—stuff before I worked up the nerve to go out and talk to you." _You knew I was out there?_ I wanted to ask, but my mind was already sort of sludgy, and before I had the chance another thought came to me. _He always knows. _"For what it's worth, I hate all your girlfriends when you first start seeing each other. Hate almost everybody—but—when your happy, sometimes, get to the—never really _loved_ any of them, but—probably would have—you know. Eventually."

"Don't do that. Whatever you think you're doing for me, you aren't. It's just…noise." He nodded, silently, standing up and making his way towards the couch. For six hours neither one of us said a single word. He was right, the combination of booze and pills almost completely shut down my brain. For the first time in two months, I wasn't thinking about Amber. This wasn't one of those times when I would remember something good, and get so caught up in the memory that I'd forget about the pain for a while. It was like I was standing outside in the snow, completely naked, but had gone so far beyond being cold. My ears, nose, fingers, and other body parts no longer burned. I was numb, all over. _No wonder he takes so many pills,_ I thought. It didn't feel good—although for a long time there I wondered if anything ever would—but more importantly it didn't hurt.

Part of me wished I could stay like that that forever, but unlike House, I found no comfort in being empty. I was relieved to lose the pain for a while, to get away from the grief and the overwhelming sadness, but I couldn't live there. I knew if I tried I'd either end up dead, or in a coma, or rehab. That's the problem with having more than one person who cares about you. House would have let me disappear, because for him the nothingness, not feeling at all was close to good as he thought he could get. My other friends—the ones who didn't hate me now—and family, however, would never let me get that far gone. As the pills started to wear off, I was the one to break the silence.

"So-um…do you think sometimes…did you dad punish you sometimes because he actually wanted to do those things, like maybe he over reacted to –the sort of behavior most parents would just ignore, or call an accident or something?"

"You're only making me talk about this 'cuz it's easier than dealing with your own pain," he whined, hoping to distract me. I nodded, telling myself that it didn't matter how much he complained, I wasn't going to drop this.

"You've been hurting a whole lot longer. I'll be alright for a while. After today…what I did to you. I was almost afraid of what I'd find when I came by. That's part of the reason I was in that parking space so long."

"I thought about," House paused, pulling one hand up over his head, the other around his neck in an exaggerated gesture. "But thought I had a better chance of making you not hate me…_yes_, to your question. Used to get into…dunno. Once I spilled a drink at dinner, kicked the crap out of me. Sort of thing happened a lot."

"And the…other stuff?" I wondered if I couldn't bring myself to say the words, sexual abuse, if it was even fair to expect him to actually talk about it. "Was that used as punishment, or did he have a—I'm not sure what I'm saying here."

"_That_ came later. I was supposed to be asleep, but after a couple of times, started to figure it out. Knew when he was gonna come into my room much later, couldn't get myself to close my eyes—not that I could sleep anyway. There were a couple times when he wasn't around. Got deployed once, and never…almost never got in trouble when he was gone. Even when I did," he sort of shivered. "Normal punishments, you know…when they went on vacation, I stayed with my grandmother; she let me do whatever I wanted. Anyway, when he wasn't—calmed down, smiled sometimes, behaved myself, if enough time went by, even the nightmares weren't so bad. I think he knew that I sensed t. So he'd torture me, keep me waiting until 2:00 or 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning. Always said...nice stuff during the…that I was…he said the…you know what I mean?"

"He told you he loved you?" I asked, moving back to the couch so I'd be closer to him, and maybe Greg would let me put my arms around his body. "It's okay," I whispered. "I won't let anybody hurt you ever again. No one's going to be mean to you like I was today either."

"Good luck on that one. Even you don't like me. Look, I don't care about anybody, sept maybe you. All of those morons could go to Hell, I wouldn't notice. You were nice to me. Used to listen when I got freaked out 'cuz I woke up at 2:00 AM just knowing that he was there, felt his hands and his breath, and...even when I didn't tell the truth, you still listened." He was close to tears, so I just let things happen however they were going to happen. "You came and got me. You…didn't hate me. Nothing else counted. I always knew that no matter how bad it got, I could call Jimmy and he might yell at me for a minute but then he'd come over…everything would get better." He was quiet for a long time, before finally telling me the most important thing. "I was gonna tell you about my dad the night…went to some random bar, to get some courage. That's why I ran away. That's why I deserve for you to leave. If I wasn't such a coward, we'd be okay, because she'd still be here, and I wouldn't be a murderer" I wasn't completely sure if he believed it, but the way he'd said it, using those specific words, I was pretty sure he did.

"We will be okay again," I promised, wrapping my arms around his sobbing body, just barley containing my own tears. "You aren't a chicken, and you sure as Hell don't deserve any of this. I'll make everything like it used to be. You'll see. We're gonna be okay. Do you trust me??"? House nodded, and soon we were both curled up on the sofa, two totally damaged people swimming around in the big swimming pool of life, without anything to keep us from drowning but each other. _We're screwed_, I thought, but didn't dare say out loud. _Now what? _I asked myself in the darkness, after Greg had cried hard enough to make himself fall asleep. "I don't think I can do this without you," I whispered in the darkness, praying that the words would make it to the right ears. "Please, we need you; we both do. He said he was sorry, what more do you want?" But of course, nobody answered me.


	2. Catching Up

"You picture me, I'm walking too far ahead

"You picture me, I'm walking too far ahead  
you're calling to me, I can't hear what you've said.  
Then you say, go slow; I fall behind  
the second hand unwinds  
If you're lost you can look and you will find me  
Time after time  
If you fall I will catch you Ill be waiting  
Time after time," Cyndi Lauper.

My original plan had been to stay up all night, in case he had a dream or woke up thinking that our whole evening wasn't real, terrified to open his eyes and discover I wasn't actually there. I told myself House needed me more than I needed sleep, but I must have drifted off all the same. One minute I was laying there staring out the window at the dark purple sky, feeling his chest rise and fall under my hand, and then all of the sudden, the sun was shining in, filling up the entire room with light. I looked around me carefully, only half aware of the fact that Greg was no longer in my arms. Somewhere in the distance I heard water running, and the soft sound of someone singing, a woman's voice. This realization hit me a lot more quickly, and in an instant, I completely forgot about Greg. _It's Amber. She's here! She came back!_ I was ecstatic, for about fifteen seconds.

"This is just another stupid dream," I muttered to myself deciding it would be more painful to see her again, knowing full well that I probably wouldn't remember any of this come morning. "Wake up," I ordered my body. "Wake up; wake up; wake up—wake up!"

"Not yet," her voice called out, much closer this time. I spun around. Amber stood before me in that silky black bathrobe, her hair up in a towel. "We need to talk." _Great,_ I thought, _even in my dreams she's pissed at me._ "I'm not mad; I'm worried about you. Okay, I'm mad too. House was hospitalized for two weeks, after I died, and you didn't even call him."

"I was in pain!"

"You were angry."

"And in pain! I miss you so—" I went to hug her, but as if she were a real ghost, my arms went right through my girlfriend's body. "I love you. I couldn't think, couldn't sleep. I barely ate. I couldn't deal with his crap and mine."

"You blamed him."

"Well, I couldn't help it. He did it! He killed you!" I couldn't believe those words had just come out of my mouth. "Aren't you supposed to comfort me? Say, 'I love you James,' and stuff like that?"

"Well that doesn't sound like something I'd do," she chuckled, but hugged me anyway. Then, she smacked my face. "Do any of those things sound like me?" Amber asked, inspecting my cheek gently. "You're fine. We both know House is a jerk, and we both know why."

"He told you?" I asked shocked. She shook her head. "Then, how do you know?" She laughed at me. "Oh. What else do you know?"

"Everything. Listen to me. I'm not in pain. I'm not scared. I'm wonderful, but when I check on you, I see you ignoring a sick, hurt, scared friend, ignoring him, yelling at him, hurting him, hurting yourself! You don't eat. This is the first time you've slept in—days. What are you trying to do?"

"I thought it would be easier if we weren't around each other for a while, but he would never be okay with that. I thought I could make him so mad at me that it wouldn't hurt when I wasn't there."

"James, I'm inside your head. Don't lie to me, not unless you want me to never, ever come back here again. What are you trying to do?"

"I wanted to hurt him," I admitted, looking away. "And I know House well enough to know exactly which buttons to push. So I told him the last thing in the world he needed to hear, and now I don't think he'll ever trust me again."

"Well, luckily House barely understands what the word means. That's one of his best qualities. As long as you don't hurt him again, don't say those kinds of things, as long as you stay here, where you belong, in four months, eight months, a year—it'll be like that incident never happened."

"I'm not exactly in the best shape to be…" Amber kissed me again, and then leaned in close so she could whisper in my ear.

"I love you, James Wilson, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you. I didn't want to do that. Be me at me. Be mad at God. We can handle it. Don't take your pain out on House, or I'll come back here, and kick your ass."

"Why do you like him all of the sudden? You hated House. You two both hated each other. I get why he's been trying to say nice stuff about you…but how—why do you like him now?"

"Because I know. I told you, James. I see everything now. You two were made for each other and he needs to be treated well. He's still hurting. Don't let him—don't ever do that to him again, got it?" I nodded, clasping onto her again. "I know. I know. I know, and I'm sorry, but it's time for you to wake up now. You've got to go back to him." Then, something weird happened, she opened her mouth and said something, but it came out in House's voice, "wake up."

"What?"

"Wake up!" House repeated the words, shaking me by the shoulders a bit. "Jimmy?" he asked, looking up at me, helplessly. Someone was knocking on the door, and the phone was ringing. "It's Cuddy."

"On the phone or at the door?" I asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Greg was sort of massaging his leg, in his, _I'm such a pitiful cripple, _thing.I knew he wasn't really hurting that bad, but he was asking for my help. So, I smiled at him, touched his hair gently, and got up. "She's calling and knocking on the door?"

"At least somebody's horny," he said, laughing, but then sat quietly while I opened the front door. "You can go away now. I'm fine. _He_ isn't, but uh—all things considered…" Cuddy stared at me awkwardly.

"I thought you were leaving," she said, dropping her phone into her purse, and forcing her way into the apartment. "I've been trying to get a hold of both of you for three hours!"

"We were asleep. Um—about that whole resigning thing…is there any way we can pretended it didn't happen?" I watched as she looked me over, trying to figure out what was happening. "I'm not going to flake out or anything. We talked; I don't wanna—you guys were right. I don't really want to leave. We're gonna need a few more weeks, though—you know, time off to deal with our problems."

"If you wanna stay, we're both—if you're looking for a fun time, feel free to hang out. I've got a super-sized pack of condoms and all kinds of neat toys in my bedroom," Greg offered.

"Shut up, House," we both said, at almost the same time. He stood up, heading for the kitchen. "Just—you can go, Lisa. We'll be okay." She hugged me, tightly, and then stepped back. "So can I have my job back, or what?" She nodded, turned away, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "See you—later." She nodded again, and left. I found House sitting at the table, picking through a box of Lucky Charms. "Are you okay?'

"Why wouldn't I be? he asked, taking a swig from the carton of milk he had taken from the fridge. "Want some?" he nodded towards both. I shook my head, going through the refrigerator and pantry. "There isn't much food here. You wanna go grocery shopping later?"

"Not really."

"You usually order them online or just stop by a Wawa's after work?" I joked, but he didn't respond. "Can I at least get a pity laugh, or something? And you never answered my question. Not really."

"That's because I don't really know the answer to it. I've never actually told anybody about—my dad, before. I mean uh—Cameron sort of guessed, but I lied—well no. It's not a lie. I just didn't tell her everything. I hid under the…I well you know, you were here the day she met my folks. I don't tell people about him, because—because it's tough as—it's like…I hate thinking about it. Talking about what happened is a million times worse. "

"I didn't plan on falling asleep. I figured you weren't gonna sleep so well, and my plan was to stay awake in case you needed anything. But I sort of screwed up, wasn't there when you needed me to be." He looked at me oddly, taking a long swig from the milk carton.

"I take it we're not talking about last night anymore, are we?" he asked, pushing the Lucky Charms box out of his way so we could see each other. "You feel asleep last night 'cuz you've been staying awake at all costs, only resting when you pass out from total exhaustion, and were in desperate need of forty winks. You look a lot better today, and to be honest, I really need you at your best if I'm ever gonna get better. So it's fine. I don't mind that you fell asleep. As far as the stuff from before that goes, we'll nothing we can do about that. Yeah, it hurt, and sure I felt like I was being…like we were never gonna see each other again, that—like I said last night." _You're afraid that I'm gonna go from caring, to treating you like everyone else does,_ I thought.

"Are you okay with me knowing about what your dad did to you? Maybe even feel, like, maybe we could talk some more? Or I could—I am feeling better today. If you're ready to listen, and not tell me I'm an idiot, I wouldn't mind sharing a little something with you." I wanted to tell him about my "dream" more than anything else in the world.

"I'm not very good at this," he said, almost sounding ashamed of the fact. "You sure we should be—sure I'm the one who should be doing this for you? I—I don't know what to—what I'm supposeda. What do I do?" He looked like a rabbit caught in a snare or a deer in headlights. I think mostly he was afraid that he'd say the wrong thing and make me mad.

"Well that's how you know it was a dream…sorry. It's just." House's legs were shaking slightly, like he was terrified. "I didn't mean that—I'm sorry. I'll shut up and never, ever say anything ever again."

"No, you're absolutely right. I said the exact same thing, and you wanna know what she said? She did hate you, when she was alive. But now—she said everything gets…that you know everything, after you die, and I know in my head it doesn't make sense to think of this as something real. I took all the new information I learned a yesterday and my subconscious turned it into a lesson with a nice big bow on top, but I don't think it was that. Don't tell me how irrational it is, don't" I sobbed, and Greg wrapped his arms around my body, and held on to me tightly. He rubbed my back and shoulders, awkwardly, but he was clearly concerned.

"Yeah, I know. I'm not gonna be like—I'm not completely sure what you're talking about, but that doesn't mean you can't…my beliefs don't make your—oh _great_—you're really crying. My beliefs don't invalidate yours. If you think it was real then, maybe it was sort of, not completely stupid."

"Wow, I think that may have been the nicest thing you have ever said to me." I lifted my head from his chest. "Oh gosh, I got your shirt all wet." He sort of smiled, and nodded. _Lie I've never done that before, _he was probably thinking."Wow, it really does help. I'm feeling much better now, thanks. You did good, House."

"I'm not an idiot; I know how to sit there and not be an ass. I usually don't, but that doesn't mean I can't. You're not gonna be doing that a lot are you?" he asked, scratching his beard.

"I honestly don't know. I don't. I wish I did, but maybe, sorry, Greg, but it just. I just. This sucks. I'm in a lot of pain, and I'm scared, and I'm lost and confused and as messed up as you are."

"Well we're screwed," he said with a sigh, pushing back in his chair. "Last night I didn't sleep so good, but I'm lucky enough to have not remembered anything from the dream I had, except for—I saw him—he was…huge. It was dark, really dark. And I remember the way he used to look at me, like I was a big slice of cake or a water fountain in the middle of the desert or something…" This time it was my turn to hug him, but Greg wasn't thrilled with the idea. "Don't really wanna be touched right now. Okay? Okay?' I nodded, letting him go, which of course was instantly, followed by him grabbing my arms, yanking me forward, and wrapping them around his body. "I don't know what I want. How messed up is that?"

"I'm sorry. I wish I could make it not hurt any more. I wish I could make the dreams stop. I wish I could keep myself from saying things, doing things to you, making you feel like…"

"Wishing doesn't work. You keep saying the same thing over and over, and I don't like that you keep repeating it. It would be great if it meant something, or it helped, but you aren't really…I remember. Just—I don't care so much about the dreams. You think I don't have these stupid fantasies of my own?" House sort of pouted. "You wanna know about my wishes? I wish I could control my reaction to the dreams. I wish I could wake up and say, "it was just a nightmare, he can't hurt you any more,' and that scared feeling I used to get when I was five would just go away." House stood up, walking away. "I'm not avoiding the conversation. I really have to change my shirt…and everything. I was wearing this yesterday. And it's wet and dirty."

"I have to go outside, 'cuz all my stuff is still in the car. It—um, might take a minute. Not exactly sure where the box with my jeans and stuff inside is. Are you okay for a couple minutes while I go dig through the car?" He nodded, and the two of us went our separate ways.

The rest of the day went pretty much the way things usually did with us. Greg was quiet, unless he was making rude sarcastic remarks. He ate, watched TV, and told the occasionally joke, but very little else. Usually I would have suggested a game of cards or that we play x-box or something, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere, and I knew the man well enough to know when to just leave him with his thoughts.

"How come you decided to drive over here last night? I mean, you said…well actually you didn't say, I sort of. In your office, I was trying to get attention, and then you told me we weren't friends anymore, maybe_ we never were._ So, I went home to try and think of a way to prove otherwise, get you back, even if it meant—but then I saw you sitting outside on the street. And don't try and tell me it was all lies and bullshit. I've gotten good at knowing when I'm being lied to, especially when you're trying to tell me something not true." House looked like he might be on the verge of tears himself at this point. I was being irrational, telling him stuff that didn't have any rhyme or reason behind it, and he was confused.

"Well, I guess I did mean it at the time, but I was mad and in pain, in a lot of pain. Sometimes you say stuff in situations, things that you otherwise would never so much as think of, and when it's over, just have to pray—I had to hope my friends wouldn't hate me, that at least a couple of them—well you actually. You're the one I was really worried about because everyone else can handle me telling them that stuff, but you—that's why I couldn't just walk away. I said a mean—horrible, horrible thing to you. So I came here, but I was scared that neither one of us could ever get passed it. That's why I didn't go right up and knock on the door."

"That's your big insight? 'I only meant it then because I was in pain, but now I don't feel that way anymore?' That doesn't make sense! It's not rational, in fact it's completely insane, and in case you were wondering, I don't like insane because it doesn't tend to end well. If you meant it yesterday you could go back to meaning it again. You could think those things some day, one day, alter." That's what he's really afraid of, I realized. He doesn't know how I feel, or how long things are going to stay that way.

"Well, I can understand how those things would scare the Hell out of you, but we—unless you get really, really, really drunk and—I don't think there is something you could do that would make me hurt like that ever again, so it's okay. We're safe."

"What if I—kill one of your ex-wives, or I run over that stupid dog? Or—okay so I can't think of anymore; doesn't mean there aren't any. What if I do one of—what if I really, really, really, really screw up again?" _He's really freaking out here, be careful_, I thought.

"Okay, number 1. Take my ex-wives, kill them…please! I don't care. Actually, I do care; I'd be much happier if they were gone, and yes, Hector is like a child to me, but he's also very old. He's gonna—pretty soon anyway, and while I wouldn't be thrilled, I wouldn't. Plus, now that I know what made you—like this, I think I can help."

"I don't believe you," he confessed, looking away.

"And you shouldn't. I have violated your trust in every way imaginable. I hurt you, yelled, abandoned you, told you we were never going to be friends again, and left you. I acted like you didn't have any feelings. I wouldn't be surprised if you never believe anything I ever tell you again. I _hope_ you will, but…I'm horrible." He sort of shrugged, looking away, towards Steve McQueen's cage.

"He's—I'm. You didn't ever try and hold me down and do—stuff and you won't ever do that. So at least we have that. You could have done a lot worse to me. Maybe, one day, I'll believe whatever you tell me. I want us to sit on the balcony and throw water balloons at people, you know?"

"We can do that right now—well right now we aren't at the hospital, but we could go up on the roof of your buildings. It's not all that high, so people might see us, but it's sort of the point."

"It was a metaphor. Well technically, I do wanna do that, but…when. Remember after you and Julie first got separated, you moved in here and cooked for me, and I…well, that was fun. I miss doing stuff like that." Greg was still staring at the rat.

"But you aren't thinking about those things, are you?" I asked, trying to decide whether or not I should touch him. He reached for my hand, blindingly, and then squeezed it, hard. "Or we could just sit here and break my fingers."

"Sorry." He relaxed his grip, slightly. "We stayed with my grandmother for almost a year once. I'm pretty sure my mom was trying to work up the nerve leave him. Don't remember exactly what made her take me away, something he did. Either he hit her, or did something really bad to her…or she caught him hurting me—not touching me, 'cuz if she had known about that she never would have let him anywhere near me," he explained. "I remember lying awake at night and feeling, warm, comfortable, and I had a full belly, but I was terrified, still waiting for him to come into my room and...hurt me. We were gone for like a year. Then, one night I realized that I was safe. My mom and Oma would protect me from my father. I was—really, really safe. I was okay. I was gonna tell them. So I rolled over, curled up, fell asleep, and had good drams for the first time that I could ever remember." House bit down on his lip, and I tried to massage his hand, but he pulled away.

I watched him carefully, trying to figure out what to do to make him feel less horrible. "I went down to breakfast the next morning, smiling. I remember it smelled like pancakes. My grandmother used to make special ones just for me, with chocolate chips in them. It was summer and there was music playing. She used to have the radio on all the time, even at night. The noise helped me sleep, guess that's why I watch the TV while I pass out on the couch now…anyway, I was standing in the kitchen, and I said, 'Mommy, Mommy, I hafta tell you something.' That's when I saw him. He gave me this look like—'don't even think about it.' I—and my mom is smiling and I just didn't know what to do.

"Then my dad says, 'what is it, Buddy, what do you wanna tell us?' I was so scared I almost wet myself. So, I said, 'I think I've got a loose tooth,' which was true, but… She told me later, 'your daddy and I have been talking to each other, trying to work out our problems, and I think it's finally going to be okay for us to move back home.' She said—he promised it was gonna be better. He was gonna be nice to us, but…she left it up to me. She asked me 'what do you think we should do, Greg?' He was—he was sitting right there! What could I do? How was I supposed to react to that? I had to say yes, just went back to living with him."

"She didn't know. I've met your mother and she loves you more than anything in the world. If she'd had any idea what your father was doing, she would have stopped him. That woman would have gone to the ends of the Earth to keep her little boy safe, and I'm sorry you never got to—"

"I know, but…he told me that if I ever said anything, he would kill her, 'and I'd get away with it too, Greggy.' He used to call me that, stupid, patronizing bastard. 'And then it'll just be us. No more Mommy sneaking you food in the middle of the night. No more baby toys, just you and me, doing whatever I tell you, whenever I tell you,' and then he would laugh, and do—he put his…you don't actually want me to go into the details do you? Please, I can't. It's—I told you he molested me, what else do you wanna know?" House shook his head. Then he stood up, and walked across the room.

"You don't have o go into the details, unless. You don't have to tell me everything. I'm never going to make you, now if you ever feel like telling me specific things for—if you think it will help, then…and you aren't listening to me, are you?"

"Hey," he said to the rat. "You didn't eat today. Come on. That's the good stuff. The pet store charges more for that than most of _my_ food. What's wrong?" The rat responded by standing on its hind legs, pressing his front paws against the cage, as if reaching up for his master. "You know, we go through this at least twice a month. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were scamming me." Steve squeaked, jumping up towards Greg. "Can you go to the kitchen and grab a package of cheese and peanut butter crackers, and the little blue bowl?" he asked me. "I think his digestive track is messed up. Sometimes he just doesn't eat. If it happened more, I wouldn't do this, but he's so—it's so rare. I crumble them up and he's okay with those, but..."

"Have you tried taking him to the vet?" I asked, stupidly.

"Yeah four times, cost me a total of almost five grand, and he didn't find nothin'. Of course, by the time I bring Steve McQueen in, whatever was wrong, resolved itself. I think…maybe he picks up on my being…on my not feeling so good. I must make his food smell weird or something." He broke off a bit of cracker, held it in his cupped palm, and lowered his hand into the cage. The rat sniffed him carefully then gobbled it up, squeaking happily. House patted his head with one hand, breaking more crackers with the other. "There you go, lousy, stinking cheat." He said those last few words in an almost sweet sounding voice, no sweet isn't the right word. He sounded nice, despite what he was saying, obviously the animal couldn't tell the difference. "Useda think he did it on purpose, but he's just not that smart. He only goes after it every once in a while, just not that organized. He's a rat; his brain's the size of a peanut."

"You sure go through a lot of trouble for that thing," I said, standing next to him. House shrugged. "It's okay that you care about him. It's a good thing."

"Yeah, yeah, makes me human, means I can care about other living things too, blah, blah, blah. Next you're gonna wrap everything up like an after school special telling me I'm fine just the way I am. Then, I cry and music plays and we all live happily ever after." He sighed, rubbing his face.

"No, I'm not going to do that. You have your problems, and I have mine, but that doesn't mean…it doesn't. Nevermind. You did—thank you for today. It helped, being able to just talk to you, and it means a lot that you trusted me enough to tell me what your father did to you. I'm sorry for being—for abandoning you this summer."

"I'd call it a Mulligan, but I don't wanna start all over again," he explained. "Does that need more explanation? Sometimes, I don't realize that stuff. I just think that everyone understands how I think, until I can see that look on their face like I just spoke in another language or—and that's when I explain. Kutner's getting good at the whole metaphor thingy, but he's also kind of annoying. I think I should fire them and hire 40 new applicants."

"Yeah, you're not exactly thinking clearly right now, might not be the best time to start making those sorts of decisions about your life."

"Oh shut up, like I'm not going to make fun of you just because you're totally pathetic and depressed about the bi—about Amber. I can only pretend that you're not an idiot for so long before my head explodes."

"You can call her the b-word again. I'm not gonna get mad and walk out of here. You didn't like Amber when she was alive, and pretending that you did just makes…it's sort of like saying that…I dunno exactly. I have this really intelligent idea in my head, but I don't know how to express myself." House laughed. "Guess now I know how you feel most of the time."

"I can express myself just fine, it's just getting the stupid, "normal" people to understand what I'm saying that's difficult." I laughed a little, but obviously he thought he deserved a greater response, because he put the rat down, hobbled over, and elbowed me in the rib cage. "How are you doing?" he asked after a few minutes.

"I think I'm a little better now. I still feel…I don't know exactly how to describe it, but. Have you ever. I just. This is different than getting divorced, or dumped, or even when my grand parents died. It's different than when my brother disappeared. I've never felt anything like this, and you are not going to die until the exact same time that I do so that I never have to feel it again, okay?"

Greg stared at me for a few minutes, studying my face, in a childish attempt to either read my mind or scare me into taking it back, but when neither worked, he said, "I guess you're have to make the same promise to me, but—yeah, okay. Whatever." I wrapped my arms around him, and said that I wouldn't ever leave him again. I could tell that House didn't actually believe me, but he wasn't going to say anything. That night we didn't do anything fancy for dinner, and neither one of us felt much lie having sex, so we curled up on the sofa together and watched _Vertigo _until we fell asleep around 3:00. I slept through the night without so much as a hint at a nightmare, and even though he didn't do as well, Greg woke up feeling much better than he had in a long time and for the first time since Amber's death so did I.


	3. Daddy's Boy

"I have a problem," House explained, entering my office, closing, and tehn locking the door

Chapter Three: in which House goes to his father's funeral and rekindles his relationship with his mother. Tonight's episode was good, had some amazing moments, but I'm pretty sure mine is better. I think I'm done.

"I have a problem," House explained, entering my office, closing, and then locking the door. He sat in the chair across from me. His knees were shaking as he bounced his cane up and down against the floor. _I can see that_, was my first though; I almost voiced it, but knew we'd spend two hours arguing and not talking about what was really happening if I did. "My dad's dead."

"Well—all things considered—after what he did to you, I'm surprised you're not dancing on the ceiling." He looked up at me, one eyebrow raised slightly. "He was an evil man, and you're confused because part of you isn't sure how to feel? You wanna hate him, but…" I stood up, walked over to his side, but didn't touch the guy yet.

"My mom wants me to deliver a eulogy. I'm not—sure if I can even…go. To the funeral, I mean." Greg turned away when I attempted to make eye contact, trying to read his face. "And I'm not confused. Never liked the guy; glad he's dead. Maybe won't have those stupid dreams anymore." I nodded, as if saying, _alright._ He may have paused but it wasn't to give me an opportunity to speak. Greg couldn't really handle a conversation yet, even saying stuff without my responding, which was usually the most difficult part, seemed excruciating. So he kept quiet, thinking or at least trying to think. "My mother, needs…I dunno, something, but can't--I can't have people telling me how sorry they are. Not unless it's okay to kill someone at a funeral….think I can get away with that?"

"Doubt it. Look, you're an excellent liar. Go to the funeral, don't talk. Sit with your mom, be there for her, pretend that the crap everyone keeps saying actually means anything. It's not any easier when you like the person. Then, after everyone goes home, tell her.'

"What if…what. She can't deal with that right now," he whispered, but this wasn't what he really wanted. House was just like everyone else. Talking about it helps, but when you keep it in as long as he had, those same childhood feelings of shame and fear still remained. He'd wanted to ask, _what if she doesn't believe me_, but was afraid of the answer.

"She's your mother—of course she'll believe it." House glared at me. _Yeah right, it's _sort of laughed. I thought about telling him, you'll_ never forgive yourself if you don't go_, but knew it wouldn't work.

"I'm bad…even she probably doesn't expect me to show up." He didn't believe that. I understood it, could have told him so, could have hurt him, but Greg was already hurting, and despite what he claimed there were mixed emotions involved. Ten minutes went by and we sat in silence, staring at each other, me trying to figure out what he needed, and him mostly still in shock. "Aren't you gonna say anything?"

"What do you want me to tell you?" He shrugged. "Don't you wanna see her, talk to her…you once told me you wanted a relationship with your mother, but couldn't, because…"

"You shouldn't have to go to this thing. You're already going through a whole lot of right now and…" He shrugged, as if unsure what my emotional needs really were. "And don't say _I'll be okay_."

"Of course I won't. Nobody is ever okay," I explained. "There's this guy in my support group, his wife died eleven years ago. Still isn't—I'm not going to be exactly the way I was, no matter how long I have to deal with this, no matter how careful everybody is or isn't, but that doesn't mean I'm not ever gonna feel happy or have good moments or…whatever." I paused, to let him think about this briefly. I could tell he wanted to tell me what I'd just said was moronic.

"Does this mean I don't hafta be nice to you anymore?" he asked, turning his attention back to me. I smiled, putting my hand on his arm, as soft and as gently as I possibly could.

"You were never nice to me." We both sort of smiled and he shrugged. "Come on, I'll drive. This way, all you gotta do is sit there, and not beat anybody up, alright?"

"This is stupid," he spat. _Wow, you're becoming more and more like a five-year-old every minute,_ I thought, and Greg ran a hand through his hair. "I-you better not leave me alone for more than ten seconds the whole time," he ordered.

"Of course not," I promised, and hugged him. House and I went back to his apartment, packed, and climbed into my car. He was quiet for most of the drive, occasionally complaining that his clothes were itchy, or because I wouldn't let him have a beer, or when he wanted to stop at the world's 3rd largest rubber band ball, or any of the other crap he wanted to do to kill time so he'd miss the whole thing. I got him to the funeral in time, and the minute Blythe saw us, she ran over, and hugged her son. He stood there awkwardly, looking over at me as if to say, _what do I do no? What do I say?_

"Hi." I offered her my hand. "He's not doing so well," I explained. We've been talking all day, and I don't think he should be—I don't think he's going to be able to get up in front of everybody, and…" I let my voice trail off, unsure of what to say exactly, hoping she'd understand.

"It's okay. You just—that's alright; that's alright." Greg leaned in for another hug, looking happy to be close to someone who cared about him so much. His jaw was clenched tightly. "Shhh, you relax, sweetheart. Greg, you're shivering."

"No, I'm not!" He pulled away, trying to make himself look stronger. "Look, I'll be okay. We can talk about it later." I watched her study his face the way he did to everyone else. "It's not a good time. I—you've got enough to deal with. I'm okay. I've got Wilson….make it for—"

"You listen to me, young man, if you think you can just stand there and lie to me like that…and right now of all times!" She wasn't really yelling, more concerned, and strong.

"Mom, please, not—don't do this," he begged. I watched her study him again, more carefully this time. "I wanna tell you, but not with everybody around, watching—listening." Greg tried to step away, only to have hand grabbed, and she wrapped her arms around him again. "Can I—sit with you?" His voice sounded child-like again, after showing an incredible amount of strength. This time when his mom went for a hug Greg responded by letting her. "Thanks, actually feeling a little bit better now."

The funeral was pretty much identical—except for the military stuff—to the ones I'd been to before, and even though Greg was trying to be n his best behavior, I couldn't help but notice that he seemed bored, playing with his cane, looking down to check his watch, and stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, then taking them back out.

"Do you need to get out of here, go for a walk or something?" I asked, whispering in his hear so we wouldn't be noticed. _Nope_, he shook his head. "Want a benzo? You look pretty freaked out…what? My shrink gave them to me, after the—they don't always help, but…sometimes. I dunno."

"Shut up, I think I'm supposed to be paying attention to this." Even though he claimed to want to stay, I knew his ability to hang in there was fading. Luckily for us the service didn't last much longer after that. Then, we went back to his parent's place, where his father's friends and a handful of relatives arrived. House sat down on the sofa, next to me, and tried to be as anti-social as he could, without actually telling people to leave him alone. He was quiet, well-behaved, even bordering on polite, and most people left us to ourselves.

By the end of the evening most of the guests were gone, and the few remaining guests were getting ready to leave. House's mom, who had been checking up on him all afternoon, came and sat down between us.

"Alright, Greg, everyone is gone now. You need to tell me what's going on, because I'm starting to get really worried about you." Even though Blythe was concerned, and trying to help her son, he seemed to become more and more unnerved by the minute.

"No, not today. I'm sorry. I know I said—but I just can't. This is really bad timing and I probably should a waited a while to say anything to you, 'cuz I know it is. I shouldn't do this right now." I couldn't tell if he was being sincere and was really worried about how his mother would be effected by the truth, or if he just really, really, really didn't want to talk about what he'd been through.

"James, what is going on?" she asked me, anticipating her son's stonewalling. I opened my mouth to tell her, _this sort of information should really come from Greg, _when he elbowed me in the ribcage, hard.

"Relax; I wasn't going to say anything. This is big…and Greg is stalling because—because it's excruciating for him to talk about. What he needs right now is support, and love and patience."

"But whatever it is, he's discussed this with you already? What does that—does that mean he trusts you but not m? He…what is wrong with my child?" she asked, new tears forming in her red-rimmed eyes.

"I've known for less than a month. He doesn't. He hasn't—he never told anyone until a couple weeks ago. Maybe we should wait, give him a few days to feel safe or comfortable and allow you some time to…" Greg pushed me again. "Look, if you want or you don't think you can do it, I can tell her. I think it's gonna hurt a lot less—well less, I'm not sure how much less—once she knows."

"Don't tell me that,' he growled. "I told you, and practically—I told you and it _didn't_ help. Talking makes everything worse. It'll hurt her and hurt me. No one's gonna feel better." Despite his statement, both House and I knew that—in comparison to the crap.

"This sort of thing takes time; like you told me—but you will get better, not completely, I mean, you're never gonna be perfect, but nobody's perfect. Now listen, we don't have to do this today. If you need more time you can have it, but—"

"Shut up," he ordered. "Can't think and listen to your moronic bullshit—sorry Mom—at the same time." I watched him reach into his pocket, take out his pills, shake them, open the bottle, close it, open it again, take out a pill, and swallow it with soda from a cup on the coffee table in front of him. "I can't—"

"What is—Greg, I am sorry, but you are scaring me. Whatever it is you want to talk about or don't want to talk aobut, I need you to tell me right now. I appreciate how difficult this must be. I can hear it in your voice, but we—I am really. This is terrifying. What happened? What is going on? Please, sweetheart."

"Mom, I'm—" he paused, as if unsure how to continue. I offered him my hand, but it was pushed away. "I'm sorry." House scratched his chin, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked away. "I um—we, Jimmy lied to you. The reason I couldn't talk wasn't because I was—well I mean, I did feel…but that wasn't…he. Do you remember those camping trips he used to take me on? One time you got me this sleeping bag. It was made for a kid's body-small, but when we were unloading he car, I noticed that Dad forgot to take it out. Only, he didn't forget. I saw him push it back behind the spare tire so he could say it was stuck there and he didn't remember it. So, when we got up to the campsite, and put the tent up, he acted like it was just a mistake. 'Oh—shoot looks like we forgot your sleeping bag, little guy. Guess you'll have to bunk with me.' I…and then he—can't believe I'm doing this today. I'm sorry."

"He hurt you?" I've heard people use the expression it was like a light bulb went of in her brain before, but I don't think I've ever actually seen it happen—when House figures out medical stuff it's a completely different look—before that. "Oh, my, but you were just a tiny—you were five-years-old and—he used to take you on those trips every other weekend. Oh, Greg," she sobbed, wrapping her arms around him again. "I should have seen it; I should have known. All that time and I never tried to protect you."

"Yes you did," he said, once again his voice sounded awkward, somewhere in-between his usual self and where he head been that night in his apartment when he told me. "We ran away once, and you were always sneaking food up to me, and getting me toys. I remember once you pulled me inside through the bedroom window. It was raining, but he—I was I think I was five or six and he had put me in the yard to—whatever. Dunno. Anyway, you always tried to protect me from him—and he said he'd—he threatened to hurt you if I ever told. I was little and stupid, and believed him. By the time I figured out it wasn't true, he had stopped…didn't see any reason. Didn't--I just. Again, stupid kid."

"You were _not_ stupid. You were a baby, and should have been able to trust your parents. You should have—we were supposed to keep you safe from people like that. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault, Mom. See, this is how come I kept quiet for thirty years. I didn't want anybody to—I didn't want you to think it was—I didn't want you to, I knew what you would think. Sorry, Mom, I didn't want to. I've got the worst timing in the world. Shouldn't—a."

"No, Greg, don't say that," se begged. "I am so glad that you told me. You're my son, and I want you to be happy. Do you remember when—you were…is there. Can I do something to help make you feel better?" she asked, holding him close again. Greg shrugged, but didn't fight this time. He seemed slightly more comfortable with her, and so I just let the two of them have some space. A few minutes later, I heard a soft sound, and could have sworn Blythe was singing to her son, and it seemed to behaving a calming effect on him. A couple of hours later, I got up, heading for the kitchen.

"I'm gonna go get a little something to eat, want anything?" She shook her head, and House shrugged. "Did you eat at all today"? I asked, and was offered another shrug. _Yeah right,_ I thought. _Like you'd forget the last time you ate._

"Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?" House's mom tried to say gently, but her voice still had that worried mother quality. _Funny thing_, I thought. She lifted his face, looking him right in the eyes. "Nothing, all day? James, there's a ton of food in the kitchen. Get him whatever he likes, or whatever you think he'll eat, and you are going to eat, right Greg?"

"Mom, I'm not—"

"Are you feeling nauseated? Do you need something for you stomach? No, then you have to have something. I know you don't eat a lot, and I don't expect you to stuff your face, but you can't go a whole day and not eat anything. I'll have some too, okay?"

"Mom, I didn't—"

"Are you going to eat? Please, it's been a difficult day for both of us." I heard these statements from two rooms away, sound carried well I guess, but couldn't actually see them. Knowing House like I do, he probably nodded, and may have said the word okay, quietly, but was already trying to think of ways to explain why he didn't finish everything. So I made him a small plate, ignoring items like fresh fruit or fish, which I knew he wouldn't eat on a good day, let alone after one like this.

"Here," I offered, handing him a half-assed Ruben (we didn't have all the necessary ingredients) a few chips, and a chocolate chip cookie. "Thank you," I said to his mother. "He looks—he seems better already."

"Don't be stupid, Jimmy. I took my pills 'cuz my leg hurt. The pain went away and now I don't seem so stressed out because they did what they were supposed to. Has nothing to do with talking about my—I didn't even talk about it really. The Vicodin even explains my appetite coming back. What the Hell did you do to my sandwich?"

"You do know that no matter how hard you push, I'm not going to get into a fight with you today, right? You want something different?" He reached over, grabbing my sliced turkey, taking a bite, then putting it back. "Or more of my food?" He shook his head once more, picking at the bread and corned beef, popping them into his mouth, and chewing. "Sure you don't need an antacid?"

"No fucking way. Sorry, mom," he said, looking away. "She doesn't like swearing. Two weeks ago, I had a paitent with a bezoar—and that guy who we gave the gonorrhea infected heart to almost died from taking those things."

"Both paitents had chronic heartburn, and had been taking the meds for at least a year. One time—you're—okay, but if you do need anything…" I let my voice trail off, because he was rolling his eyes. "Would you like some privacy so you can—" Again I was cut off, this time when his hand reached out and squeezed mine.

Later, Blythe offered to make up the guest room for us, which was fine, although, after she left, he confessed to me that he didn't exactly love the room. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement. As soon as she was out of the room his face became slightly ashen. "What is it?" I asked.

"This room, it's exactly like the ones I used to have when I was a kid. Guess they…I think the whole building was the same. I remember all the houses we lived in when I was a kid, no matter what base it was on, were all almost identical. I dunno, wasn't expecting to stay here. I'm probably just being a moron."

"Did you really think I'd agree with that?" I reached over and touched his hand. Greg shrugged. "You're not a moron, and you have every reason to not like this room. Do you wanna go sleep on the sofa?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I think I'm just being stupid and weird, and maybe it'll help me to—you know sleep in here and get over it, or—something." I thought this was the worst idea I had ever heard.

"Or you could end up completely traumatized, hurt, and more messed up than before." I tried to think of something that would help him, a way he'd understand or agree with me, and for that I needed facts, which I didn't have. "We'll sleep in the den; I'll set my watch alarm to go off early. The two of us can get up before she does, go back into the other room, and pretend like we spent the night in there." Greg shook his head. "You think she's gonna know?" House sat down on the bed, gripping his can so tightly his knuckles tuned white, hands shaking. "Hey, this is a bad idea. I think trying to sleep in this room is one of the stupidest things I've ever seen you do. If this building is the same model as the places where you grew up, then I'm sure she already knows that. She'll understand."

"I'm fine," he lied, bending down to undo his laces. _No you're not. _He removed his hat would happen if I slept in this suit? I don't hafta wear it tomorrow, but you only packed me one change of clothes, can't sleep in those, or she'll see it and worry." I walked over, sitting down, and put my arm around his shoulder.

"I also packed pajamas," I offered up, lamely. _How many times have you gone to his place and fond the guy sprawled out on the sofa in the same jeans and T-shirt he worked in all day_, I asked myself. _He doesn't wear them, because he thinks they aren't safe_. "I've seen bottoms with string ties so they don't fall down, and that don't have an opening…"

"No mater how tight you tie them, they're usually loose enough that they can get yanked down." He looked away ashamed, not of knowing this, or because it had happened to him, but because it still was upsetting, because even after all these years, even though he was an adult, his father dead and buried, he was still that same scared little kid, waiting for the monster to come and jump up from under the bed, or behind the closet door. "When we lived in Egypt, sometimes it got really hot out, even at night time—which is kind of weird in the desert, and I kicked all the covers off the bed, but it didn't help. I knew he would be coming, knew it, 'cuz he came almost every night. I knew and I still made it easier. I think—he always said that he could tell I liked it, because I was so excited I'd stay up, waiting for him, and the—he must have been right. Why else would a smart kid, who knew what was gonna happen, just leave himself exposed like that?"

"Because it was a million degrees out and you were a little kid—he would have done those things no matter how much you fought, no matter how many pairs of underwear and pajamas you put on, but you know that. This isn't about pajamas—a lot of times...it was confusing because sometimes it hurt and it was scary and you knew it was wrong, but it also felt good, right? That kind of stuff happens, but it wasn't your fault. You were a kid, it wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, heard that one before, but it doesn't actually help. I just—it doesn't feel. I don't want this anymore. I can't, I don't …" He didn't finish his sentence, staring hatefully at the wall, trying to keep himself from showing how he really felt.

"Put the jeans on, we're going to the couch…together. Neither one of us is going to get much sleep tonight, we know that. Might as well not sleep in the room that doesn't remind you of…might as well not sleep in the living room."

"I need a drink," he explained, digging through his overnight bag, and pulling out the clean pants. "Go get me a—I dunno what's in the liquor cabinet but there should be something."

"I'm not leaving you alone right now. I'll turn around if you're uncomfortable changing in here, but that's it for a while. Call me overprotective, yell at me, say I'm a pain in the neck, whatever you want, and we'll get the drink in a minute." Greg changed his clothes quickly, and then followed me into the other room. That night we tossed and turned on the sofa, him passing out for ore the twenty minutes at a time, each of us waking up two or three dozen times, and finally giving up on getting any sleep around 3:30-3:45.

"Hey," he asked, sometime later, "you okay?" I only responded with a shrug. "Why do you keep doing that? I'm trying to be—whatever and you just shut me out. If you don't wanna make me think that you think—I'm starting to…you keep lecturing me about keeping my feelings inside and not saying anything about what's going on, and then you won't even talk about her."

"I won't talk to you about it, because you hated Amber, and you don't wanna hear aobut what I'm going through anyway. I've got my support group and I'm seeing—someone, a shrink. If you really want to tell me something, feel free, but you're not obligated to go on and on about how wonderful she was and how much you miss her." He nodded, quiet, and sad. "I am starting to feel, better. You don't nee to worry. I won't be running away again. What we have is stronger than this. We are friends, and I love you." He picked up the cup he'd been drinking from before, and lifted it to his lips, but didn't actually drink it.

"That's not why I was asking." House shook his glass a little, staring into the dark brown liquid. "That was one of the worst days of my life, and I didn't even like the man. I figure, I haven't got the faintest idea how you feel, but doubt my feelings are even close to as bad as what you felt."

"You said it before, the two situations aren't comparable. I loved Amber. I still love her, and probably always will. We were close, but as you so adequately pointed out the day after the accident, I barely knew the woman. She was—your father terminated you for eighteen years, your entire childhood. How we grow up shapes who we are forever. We can change how we react in certain situations, how we look, how we behave, but we can't change how we grew up, or the sort of person growing up that way made us."

"That's the sort of thing that sounds deep, unless you think about it for more than thirty seconds, and as far as the first thing you said, that was sort of my whole point. The closest I've ever been to your thing was getting dumped—and technically that one doesn't even count 'cuz that breakup was really my fault and not some random accident or anything."

"Are you asking if I'm okay?" I was in shock. Greg never asked how I was doing unless he was being sarcastic, or setting me—or somebody else—up for a joke of some kind. "I uh. No, well yes, sort of. I don't know." I felt bad being so blunt with him, especially when he was nervous and scared, but he would have known if I was lying to him, and it would have undone all our hard work. "I don't talk to you about Amber because I don't think you can say anything that will help. Even when you try to be nice you end up saying the wrong thing, and I tend to react badly, and end up telling you stuff that I'll regret for the rest of my life."

"Like that we weren't ever actually friends to begin with?"

"I told you I didn't mean that."

"Saying you didn't mean it doesn't make up for telling me that crap in the first place," he explained. It was true, and what's worse he probably wouldn't ever get over what I'd told him, regardless of what I did or said. "We're in big trouble, aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are, but I think we're going to be alright." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew House would mock me for them, so I stopped him. "I know, it sounds stupid, especially since I haven't got any proof or—since it doesn't seem like either one of us is ever going to be okay, but I am good at this sort of thing."

_I just—if you're not okay, then maybe you'll never be okay, and if you can't get over a girl you were going out with for less than a year, what sort of a chance do I have?_ Of course he didn't actually say those words, he was just thinking them. In reality, he told me, "Yeah, sure; whatever." I wanted to hug or hold him and never ever let go, or something, and when he stood up, I reached for his hand, grabbing it, and pulling his body close to mine.

"I am not going anywhere," I promised. "In case that's what you're worried about." We sat together, silently, for more than two hours. At one point I thought I heard him say something, but that was the extent of human made sounds. Mostly I spent the early morning hours listening to the wind knock a tree branch into the window, birds chirping to each other, and trying to think of something small that would cheer him up a little, at least for a short amount of time.

Later, his mother came out of her room, already dressed for the day, with her hair and makeup fixed, at 6:55. I looked up at her, watching his as she looked sadly at her little boy, sitting on the couch, half of him completely empty, the other half so badly mangled—emotionally—that he must have seemed impossible to help. "We had ourselves a bit of a rough night."

"Did he get any sleep?" she asked me, avoiding the angry expression on his face. I nodded, and then made a small hand gesture, _so-so_. "What about breakfast? Would you like something to eat? I have enough food to feed a small country." She smiled. Greg started to stand up, carefully.

"Shit!" he moaned, and then turned his face away sadly. "I—didn't…my foot is asleep; my left one." He sat back down, stomping his left leg onto the floor. "I guess I should probably eat something, though, not really sure how much, or what to. Not sure if I _want_ anything."

"Then, maybe we should wait to eat until you're feeling better." Blythe sat down beside us. "Come here," she ordered, holding her arms open. "Greg are you…I want to give you something, alright?"

"Well, usually I'd be suspicious, but I'm guessing that, given the circumstances, you're not about to hand me a bundle of dynamite; so, sure, I guess." Obviously, she wasn't sure what to think of this, and his mother watched carefully as he cracked a small, weak smile.

"Where in the world am I going to get explosives?" she asked, jokingly. "I promise, you will like this." She stood up, and headed for her room once more. "I'll be right back; I just have to get something. Is that okay?" He nodded. A moment later, Blythe returned with a small, dusty, faded, green shoebox in her hands. "You buried this in my mother's yard when you were seven. We were moving back—I never looked at it. I only dug it up because we were selling the property after he passed away. I can't believe I remembered where it was after all these years, but I did, and I took this, for you."

"Do you have any idea what's inside? Because I was sort of a—I just don't wanna open this and find something…I don't remember this. I'm sorry, and I guess I'm a little freaked out right now, so I'm sort of…I'm stalling."

"I saw you digging the hole, so I came out to ask you what you were doing. You called it a time capsule. I think it was just your toys, and a journal you were keeping. You had this little, action figure, slept with it every night, but I think you were afraid that your father would take it away from you when we went back ho—so you hid them. You used to do that a lot," she explained.

"I still do that sometimes, although usually I only hide," he stopped mid-sentence, and shook his head quickly. "Nevermind. Sometimes I say stuff to shock people, and it's hard to get out of that mindset. Didn't wanna do it to you, just couldn't completely control it." Greg opened the box, clutching it tightly to his chest, peering inside cautiously. Soon he smiled, and moved forward enough so we could see what was inside. Neatly laid out, and organized was a small, folded notebook, with old yellowish pages, (I could see a child's handwriting, but couldn't make anything out from that distance) two action figures, and a photograph of young Greg, his mother, and his grandmother. "I think these are gonna fall apart if I try and touch 'um," he explained.

"I have another copy of this picture, if you want it. I think it's the only one I have of you smiling." At first the comment had seemed friendly, but also slightly like she was teasing him, but then—as if realizing why—her face went pale. "I'm so sorry, Greg."

"I was way too smart for my own good; probably wouldn't of been very happy in any situation, no matter how good it was. I'm not good with people. Some of that is his fault, but some of it's just my natural personality. I was always—well there's no good end to that sentence, but you probably remember. I've always been obnoxious."

"You are not obnoxious. You're just smarter than most people, and think that you shouldn't have to obey the same rules that they do, because of it. That's what always got him—he thought he was doing something good, at least, that's what I kept telling myself back then. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe I just didn't want to see what was happening."

"I was really carefully, Mom, not just 'cuz he threatened me. I knew that if people found out, everyone would treat me different, even when I was really, really little, and he first started…that part. Nobody could of done anything about that. He had a problem, and couldn't control it. What he did—it wasn't about punishment. It was just, a…and as far as the other stuff goes. At least half the other kids at school had dads who used physical punishments. I know what happened to me wasn't normal, or right, or my fault, but it wasn't your fault either. Don't know what I'd be like if you hadn't of been there…probably wouldn't of made it past the age of ten. Sorry, I shouldn't say stuff like that to you."

"In his own way, I think Greg is trying to tell you that there wasn't anything you could have done to protect him, and that he doesn't blame you for what his father did," I explained, trying to figure out exactly what wording to use to keep her from feeling even worse than she already was. _This is tough shit, but he's dealing with it, and he needs us to be strong, to take care of him._ "He didn't tell you about the abuse so you would feel bad. He's just—sharing helps, and being able to have a real relationship with you, is going to help him feel stronger, maybe even be healthier. This is a lot to deal with all at once. I know, and he's trying to make you feel better, he's just not very good at it."

"He's doing fine. I understand what you're trying to tell me, and it's okay," House's mom explained. "I'm sorry; I know it wasn't my fault, I know I probably wouldn't have been able to take care of you on my own, but I still wish. You're my son, and all I ever wanted was for you to have everything you wanted, wanted you to be happy."

"I—nobody's happy," he lied. She put her hand on top of his arm, squeezing gently. "I have a great job; I get to take whatever cases I want, when I want. I have lots of toys, and gadgets, and a pet mouse. I've got Wilson, and now we can start, to have a relationship. I'm gonna be fine…sort of." This time she didn't respond right away. Blythe watched over him carefully, touched his face, patted his back, hugged him, and nodded.

"All right. You are not okay, and you don't have everything you want, but you're ready to talk about what happened, and I think you and James are making a lot of progress. The last time I saw you, I don't know. I feel like something has changed, I just can't quite name it. But you are going to be alright, and we're going to be together." Greg nodded, but pulled away from her slight, just the same. "Is something wrong?"

"I just—you aren't. You shouldn't be. You should. I, you didn't know what he did to me until last night. He was your husband; you loved him. I've got Wilson to take care of me, don't need…" He paused, searching for a way to say what he was thinking that wasn't mean, wouldn't hurt her, and that would sound right for this particular situation. "You have your own problems. If you wanna…if you need. I—something. I don't know what to say, but I'm supposed to talk right now. I'm not supposed to—"

"My husband is dead. It hurts, and I am very sad, but you are alive. My son is still here and he needs me. I'd much rather take care of you than sit in my room alone, crying, and wondering how you are, worrying, missing you."

"I—don't. I'm not. That's not rational. It doesn't make any sense," he tried to explain, but we both knew what he really meant was, _I don't believe you._ When his mother hugged him, House laid his chin on her shoulder, his arms hanging at his side awkwardly.

"It's alright sweetheart. Everything is going to be alright. I love you, and I am going to take care of you, and be here for you until you know that it's true. I promise. You will feel better one day, it takes time…that's all. Okay?"

First he looked at me, then at her, and then back at me; I wasn't sure what he wanted or needed, so I patted the guy on the back, and gave him a small smile, and he said, "Yeah, okay."


End file.
